


How Do I Love Thee?

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England Likes to Quote Poetry while Doing the Do, Genderfluid Character, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, genderfluid!France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20081983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: Let me count the ways.





	How Do I Love Thee?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dewy_Peach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewy_Peach/gifts).

> So, this is for Tao 💜✨💜✨💜
> 
> For more information, see [here](https://writingsofasnowywolff.tumblr.com/post/186725699147/title-how-do-i-love-thee-pairing-englandfrance)

Tonight is one of those nights they had specifically set apart. The day they have spent together, the next one is left purposefully empty.

France’s fingers glide hesitantly over his tie, her nails painted a delicate mint green, specifically to tease him. It’s strange to find France nervous, but this is the first time where she’s Marianne, where England truly and completely understands her for who she is.

He’s made so many mistakes, he knows, and for her to still be with him despite them… He never wants to lose her again.

Gently, he grips her chin and tilts her head down so he can kiss her, pouring all his love into it. She smiles as their noses bump, which turns into a full-blown giggle as England brushes back her hair and takes out her earrings for her.

“Such a gentleman,” she sighs when England turns her around and unclasps her necklace as well.

He hums, lightly runs his hands along her sides, and presses equally light kisses against her bare shoulders. “Always for you, lovely.”

“Now, perhaps,” she teases, then squeaks and slaps his hand light-heartedly where it had pinched her butt. “Naughty.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he replies, equally teasing.

He slowly unzips her dress, kissing along her spine, and snaps off her bra pointedly.

“Arthur,” she scolds, acting scandalized as she twists in his grip. She rests her arms on his shoulders and kisses a line of lipstick to his ear where she whispers, “Very, very naughty.”

France gasps as England squeezes her arse again, more purposefully, and begins to nibble a path down, taking her dress along with him as he kisses her chest, her belly, kneels in front of her as she steps from her dress, and kisses the inside of her thighs.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he says when he meets her eyes.

France is still clutching her bra to her chest, shy and bashfully, but England takes her hands, smiling gently as he gazes up at her.

“_Ma __beaut__é_,” he says lovingly, kissing her fingers, one by one. “Marianne, dove. ‘_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways_.’”

France raises her eyes to the ceiling and England’s heart feels as if it might burst as she laughs; it’s the most beautiful sound. And she is the most beautiful sight, smiling down at England with her pretty blue eyes, like the sky so bright.

“_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_  
_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_  
_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.”_

“Oh my,” France says, a little breathlessly, as England speaks against her hip. “Lofty.”

His fingers play with the waistband of her panties, a pretty lacy thing, and smiles against where the fabric strains.

Yet, before he can thumb it down, France kneels too, and she cradles his face as she kisses him. Though, when the kiss becomes languid, her hands begin to tug at the buttons of his shirt.

England encourages her with little hums, his own hands moving along her back in soothing circles.

She kisses his neck, but it is her he wishes to spoil, so he gently pulls away, takes her hands again to help her up and lead her to the bed.

There, he undresses, haphazardly leaving his clothes on the floor. France has settled against the pillows and England crawls into her arms, smiling as she hugs him.

For a moment, they just lie together, England pressing soft kisses against her neck while France hums and sighs as she runs her fingers through his hair.

“You’ve still got your socks on,” she murmurs, toeing the garters.

England bites her neck, finally receiving a loud moan from her as he sucks and kisses the mark, but draws back to remove the offending items.

He tickles the underside of her foot and catches it as it jerks toward his head. Changing his grip on her ankle, he slowly kisses a line from there, up along her calf, and rests her leg on his shoulder as he lightly nibbles up her thigh.

He continues his earlier promise and says:

“_I love thee to the level of everyday__’s  
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight_.”

He inches of her panties, flicking them somewhere to the side, and settles on her thighs, rubbing the skin, just taking a moment to admire her.

She’s absolutely stunning, more so than normally. There is just something so lovely about her blush in the lamplight that English wishes he could see it forever.

“_Ma f__ée_,” he mutters as he kisses her stomach. “Your beauty most fair.”

France laughs, shivering as England sucks at her nipple. “That’s not part of the poem, is it?”

England tweaks her other nipple reproachfully. “No.” He kisses her sternum, steals a quick kiss from her lips and nibbles at her ear, continuing to rub her nipples with his fingers. “But you deserve to know, at any moment of the day, just how breathtaking you are.”

She moans, arching her back, fingers digging into his shoulders. England kisses it from her lips, cupping her jaw as he deepens it, enjoying the slightly sour taste of the wine still on her tongue.

Her leg is wrapped around his, pressing them close, and her hands are trying to push his underwear down.

“Arthur,” she breathes. “I want you. _Je te veux. S__’il te plaît, _Arthur.”

England hums, pressing chaste kisses against her jaw before pushing himself up, and crawls to the nightstand to retrieve the lube.

Yet, on his trip back down, he makes sure to kiss every part of her body. He kisses her clavicles, her shoulders, pauses at every rib, soaks in the soft giggle as he kisses her belly button, down her happy trail and along the length of her erection.

He takes his time preparing her, muttering soothing words and praise. She takes it with the softest gasps, England pausing and readjusting his fingers with every expression.

As he reaches for a condom, France takes it from him. She kisses his cheek before she helps him shimmy off his underwear and, after stroking his cock a few times, rolls on the condom for him.

England waits until she has lied back down against the sheets and kisses her knee before he lines himself up and slowly pushes in.

He breathes out through his nose, shivering at the sheer feeling of being inside of her again after so long. But he doesn’t rush, eyeing her face carefully for signs of discomfort, stopping at the slightest contortion. He takes those moments to admire her, for everything she is, until he is fully inside of her, rubbing soothing circles against her hips.

When her breathing has settled again, he leans in his forearms to kiss her, her arms immediately wounding around his neck and waist.

“_I love thee_—” He speaks in the space between their lips, but her laughter interrupts him.

“Dost thou?” she teases, a little breathlessly as England moves his hips shallowly.

“Hush thyself,” he scolds, though he can’t quite keep the amusement from his voice, and he tangles his fingers in her hair as he searches for a better angle, using his other hand to lift her butt.

He finds a rhythm, punctuated with their mingled moans, the sound of skin on skin, and the quiet whisperings of poetry.

“_I love thee freely, as man strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise_.”

England finally wrangles a loud moan from her on his next thrust, twisting his hand around her cock. He bends over her chest, lathering kisses between his words.

“_I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood faith_.”

France’s lips are pressed against his temple, murmuring words lost to England, lost in sighs and moans and affirmations.

Then, as England continues to stroke her, she shivers, pulls him as close as she can, arching against him, and comes with his name on her lips.

England waits for her, breathing heavily but lost in her blissful expression. And when she blinks open her beautiful eyes, she runs a hand through his hair and encourages his final thrusts with compliments and loving words of her own.

She holds his face as he comes, pressing small kisses everywhere until the world falls back into place again. The loving kiss she offers after he gladly accepts.

And a little later, after they’re all cleaned up and they’re cuddling together, England runs his fingers through her hair and finishes the poem quietly:

“_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_  
_With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,_  
_ Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,_  
_ I shall but love thee better after death.”_

France chuckles softly, fingers trailing up England’s chest to hold his cheek and draw his head down for an equally soft kiss.

“Hm, Arthur?” she asks.

He brushes their noses together tiredly. “Yes?”

“I love you too, _mon roi des l__égendes_,” she chirps, laughing as England rolls them over and sighs against the crook of her neck, though it’s followed by a sweet little kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem England is quoting is Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s _Sonnet 43_.


End file.
